


A Grim Fandango

by Spadesinspades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Dubious Consent, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesinspades/pseuds/Spadesinspades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock/Greek Mythology AU.  I mean, why not, right?  More of an homage than anything...  (Please note that it is <i>very</i> loosely based on mythology.)</p><p>Dramatis Personæ<br/>~<br/>John Watson.................Himself<br/>Sherlock Holmes..........Thanatos (Death)<br/>Mycroft Holmes............Hypnos (Sleep)<br/>Greg Lestrade...............Morpheus (Dreams)<br/>Molly Hooper................Atropos (Moirai/Fate - she who cuts the thread)<br/>~<br/>Jim Moriarty..................Ares (War)<br/>Sebastian Moran..........Deimos (Terror)<br/>Severin Moran..............Phobos (Fear)<br/>Irene Adler...................Aphrodite (Love)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Until Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Description of dead body, blood.

Art by the devastatingly talented [msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com). Thank you, thank you. <3

He collected them, but he didn't want to interact with them. He was frightened. Apprehensive.

He liked to watch. No.

Observe.

#

Sherlock walked around the body slowly. He was aware of every footfall; of the pressure rolling from his heel through his arch and to the ball of his foot. Each step was carefully planned. One foot inches from the left arm, the next step just outside the pool of blood that oozed from the shattered skull. Sherlock made a complete circuit around the body. 

He was drowning in the details of this man. The way his hair was cut, the stubble growing on his cheeks. The choice of suit he was wearing; the brand and the colour. The number of steps he had taken in his shoes, the gleam of his wedding ring under the dim street lights. The way his eyelashes lay on his skin, the cracks in his lips. Sherlock wanted to kneel down, to run his hands over every piece of fabric and leather, to feel the texture of the man's skin and hair. He wanted to consume him, to overdose on the human condition. But it wasn't allowed. It wasn't appropriate. And, of course, he wasn't alone.

Out of habit, Sherlock stepped aside as the mugger intersected his path. Not that it mattered. He couldn't be seen, wasn't even corporeal unless he put in the effort. The criminal had the contents of the victim's pockets in his hands and was trying to make a hasty retreat. _Idiot,_ thought Sherlock. _Leaving so much of yourself behind while taking so little away._

To punctuate the thought to himself, he walked over to where the baseball bat had been hastily tossed aside. Blood and grey matter covered the circumference of it, already congealing. Sticky and thick against the chipped and scarred wood; it had clearly been discarded along with the other detritus in the alley. He knew there would be fingerprints, the mugger hadn't been wearing any gloves when he scrambled for a makeshift weapon. _Amateur._ Sherlock was almost embarrassed for him. Almost.

He had also left clear footprints in the dusty, dirty ground. The victim had trace evidence under his fingernails and a piece of ripped sweatshirt in his right hand from the scuffle. Sherlock was impressed the perpetrator had actually managed to land a fatal blow in the end. But of course, he wouldn't have been there had it not been.

Sherlock pushed up the sleeve of his suit jacket to glance at his wristwatch. The minute and hour hands were frozen, unmoving, but the second hand was shuddering, trying to push itself back into motion. _Not much time._

He reached into his shoulder holster and extracted his scythe, still folded and blade safely tucked into the void. With the practised flick of the wrist it snapped open, shaft unfolding like a Jacob's Ladder. Once fully erect, the blade _snicked_ out in one smooth, sharp motion, protruding from the staff. The metal shimmered slightly in the low light of the alley, a semi-transparent and silvery-blue entity that Sherlock regarded with care. Crafted by the Fates, it had been a gift from his mother.

Sherlock paused for a moment, just staring at the dead human body before him. He knew that as soon as he cut out the soul, it would be over. Their one-sided, too-brief tryst would come to an end, the intimacy retreating into the shadows. He supposed it was a sense of voyeurism, this fascination he had with humans. They were just so deliciously complicated and passionate and random. He was addicted, surely. Sherlock made one swift stroke and plucked the soul from the body. A desperate sadness settled into his chest.

Out of one last shred of curiosity, Sherlock waited with the empty human shell until he heard sirens screeching in the distance. He stepped into one of the shadows in the alley just as the red and blue lights swept across the brick walls. Then, he was gone.

#

Home was a monstrous structure that sat in a pocket of the world just outside of time. The house had been rendered in perfect detail by its previous owner, who hadn't cared much for the landscape. Blackness spread in every direction with the exception of one willow tree which had been built completely out of single geometric lines. Sherlock could have re-imagined it in any way he chose, but he couldn't bring himself to really care. He walked the short distance to the porch, stepped into the foyer and closed the heavy wood doors behind himself.

_Silence._

The emptiness of the house pressed down on him. It was suffocating. A large staircase sprouted out of the foyer and stretched off to either side on the second floor; the east and west wings. Both unoccupied. The rooms on the main floor, the sitting room and the kitchen, were both functional but barely used. A hallway to the left of the stairs led to Sherlock's study. His sanctuary in his own home. He walked quickly towards it. His footsteps echoed through the entire structure. _Empty. Alone. Barren._

Sherlock pushed open the door to his study and the sound enveloped him immediately. The gentle whisper of sand falling through glass. It caressed him, wrapping itself around his body and settling into his skin. Seductive. He walked the rows upon rows of bookcases, hourglasses perfectly stacked on every single shelf. Nameplates gleaming. Sherlock stopped in the centre of the room and just _listened_. The sound was like a collective and never-ending hush. The kind a mother would whisper to her newborn baby. _Shhhh... Darling, don't cry._

He walked the rest of the distance to his desk and fell into his chair. He pulled out his scythe again and set it on the tabletop, still folded. In this place, time flowed differently. Slower, faster, backwards and forwards. And Sherlock's task would never end. He could take as much time as he needed. His clientèle would wait. This night, like all other nights, would find Sherlock buried in a book until sleep took him. Biographies and textbooks and fiction and romance. He devoured it all.

But this night was not like other nights, after all. There was a knock at the study door. Sherlock stood from behind his desk. He could hear footsteps travelling between the bookcases and he walked into the rows to meet them. A small, slender man stood with an hourglass in hand, studying it.

"I would ask that you kindly return that to its rightful place," Sherlock pointedly did not ask.

The man placed the timer back on the shelf and turned slowly. He had ink black hair and sharp features. Sherlock recognized him immediately.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed. "What are you doing in my home?"

Jim grinned, teeth bared. "Dearest Sherlock, I've brought you a gift," he explained, hands outstretched.

"And what might that be?" Sherlock asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, guarded.

"War," Jim replied simply.


	2. Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language, a scene with non-consensual sexual advances, depictions of war, blood, character death.

Art by [msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com). There are not sufficient enough words to thank you.

"That's the flop, gents." 

Lieutenant Collins was standing in the crowd huddled around the small cot, playing the part of the commentator. The entire squad was fixated on the hand of poker being dealt out before them. Three men were seated on crates; two players and a dealer. Captain Watson had his two cards face down on the cot and Cadet Williamson held his in sweaty hands. Three cards were visible; the King of Clubs and the nine & three of hearts.

"Raise. Fifty quid," Watson said coolly.

Williamson narrowed his eyes at his cards, then looked over at the Captain. His eyes flickered over to the cards on the cot. "I call," he replied.

"Let's see the turn, Preuss, come on!" urged Collins, from behind.

Preuss, a small but sturdy looking man, looked up from the dealer position and flipped off the mouthy Lieutenant. A smattering of laughter bubbled up from the crowd. He pulled the next card off the top of the deck and turned over the seven of hearts. Williamson was practically vibrating in his seat. 

"Watson?" Preuss asked.

"I check," he replied, tapping the cot.

"ALL IN!" exclaimed Williamson before Preuss could even ask him. "And I want to raise with a week's worth of bedpan duty."

The crowd 'oohed' and 'ahhed' at the new stakes. Watson looked over at his opponent, not even bothering to check his hand. He had the larger pot at the moment, so if he called and lost it wouldn't be the end of the game. But if he called and won, it would be over for Williamson.

"I call," Watson said. "Now let's see your cards, Cadet."

Williamson threw his cards down on the cot with a satisfied grin on his face. The Jack and Queen of hearts. A flush. Watson blinked slowly.

"Alright, Captain, let's see then!" "Come on Watson, clean him up!" "Bedpans for a week, Johnny!" Voices called forth from the crowd.

Slowly, Watson leaned forward and flipped over his first card. The seven of clubs. Pair. The men jostled behind him, trying to get a better look at the small playing field on the cot. Watson looked up and stared at Williamson as he flipped over the second card. Seven of spades. Three of a kind. The crowd groaned and Preuss shook his head.

"Not going to beat his flush with that, Captain," Collins pointed out. "Those bedpans got your name all over them!" Catcalls and whoops sounded throughout the medical tent.

Watson just sat quietly, the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.

"Let's have the river then, eh boys?" asked Preuss as he slid the next card off the pile. "On to the next hand. Hopefully a better one for you, sir."

Watson replied with a nod, his eyes fixed on the river card. Preuss turned it over slowly, letting it fall on to the cot and into it's place at the end of the line of cards.

As soon as it fell, the room erupted into chaos. Williamson put his head in his hands. Watson smiled. The other men hollared and cheered. "WHAT ARE THE ODDS?" "BLOODY HELL!" "CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN!" They jumped up and down, pushing each other in disbelief.

Watson leaned forward and slowly slid the Suicide King towards himself. The King of Hearts. Sevens full of Kings. Full house. Victory. He plucked the card from the cot and slid it into the strap of his helmet.

Then he quietly collected his winnings, patted Williamson on the shoulder and stood up to leave. The men were still celebrating his victory as he made his way to the entrance of the tent. But right before the flap, on the floor in front of one of the beds, he spotted a bedpan. With the gentle shove of his boot, he kicked it across the floor and watched it slide right over to the makeshift card table. It came to a stop right beside Cadet Williamson.

The noise level in the tent doubled.

###

"Arroooo!" 

"Ar- arooo!"

Sherlock turned his head towards the sounds sharply. "You didn't."

"Oh, but I did. They miss you so," Jim said. "Our little black sheep."

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the soft footfalls that crept through his study. Two sets, moving ever closer. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The Moran twins, Moriarty's loyal bloodhounds. He strained his hearing, they were almost silent against the falling sand. When he opened his eyes, Moriarty was staring back at him. Waiting. Watching. Sherlock was about to open his mouth to demand that he call them out of hiding.

Then...

The softest puff of air through his hair and the gentlest brush of lips against the curve of his ear. Sherlock's eyelids shuddered closed against his will, shivers travelled down his arms. He inhaled a shaky breath and his head fell back, coming to rest on another man's shoulder. The presence loomed behind him, body pressed against his back. One strong arm enveloped him from behind, reaching over Sherlock's right shoulder and crossing over his chest, clutching him. The lips again, ever soft, on the exposed skin of his neck. Then teeth, scraping. Sherlock was frozen in place. _Fear._

"I knew that my news might not thrill you, as it once did," he heard Jim say. "So I thought I'd bring along a little incentive. Try to... get you back into the mood. Like the old days."

There was now a second pair of hands at his legs and he was lifted effortlessly off his feet. Sherlock felt himself being carried out of the room. He couldn't force his eyes open. _Terror._

"It's a strange fascination you've developed with the mortals," Jim continued. "It's making you soft. And it's making my little war games far less fun. We used to be such a team, you and I, Sherlock. We were the same. Built for destruction."

Sherlock tried to speak but dread held the words in his throat, unspoken.

"One question - bedrooms still upstairs on the right?"

Sherlock whimpered.

#

Sherlock tried to calm himself with facts. With information. Jim knew his way around the house; after all, he had once lived there. So perhaps he had an advantage in that. But this was also not the first time that Sherlock had to deal with Sebastian and Severin. He could best them, he just had to will the fear away. Crush the terror with logic. But it wouldn't be easy. They had long since re-wired his reactions to fear stimulus in a way to be much less... adverse. He also knew that Jim was out for something. Sherlock needed to figure out what it was.

"Put him there," instructed Jim.

Sherlock felt himself being lowered on to a soft mattress. The weight shifted slightly around him and he could tell that the Moran twins were with him. He clenched his teeth and opened his eyes with great effort. Jim stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, overseeing. Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest; he would've sworn it was audible. 

With just a nod from his boss, Severin leaned in closer. Long slender fingers worked at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Every motion sinful. Severin was the smaller of the two twins, thin and lithe and pale. Scarred down the left side of his face the way that his brother was across his nose bridge. Gifts from their beloved Moriarty so he could tell them apart when they were younger. Severin pulled the shirt open as he worked his way down from Sherlock's collar. Every brush of his fingertips against skin sent tremors through Sherlock's body.

On his other side, Sebastian was shifting, lowering himself to lie prone next to Sherlock. He was larger than his brother, taller and much more muscular. Tanned skin and grey eyes. Sebastian pressed his lips against Sherlock's collarbone, then ran his tongue up the length of his neck, stopping just below his earlobe.

"Are you scared yet, little lamb?" Sebastian whispered.

Sherlock felt the raspy breath in his ear and his cock twitched in response. He bit down on his lip, hard. _Stop, stop, stop._ He fisted his hands in the sheets, fighting against himself.

Severin finished with the buttons and spread Sherlock's shirt open wide. Jim smirked when he could see Sherlock's chest rise and fall with laboured breaths. He nodded again and Severin ran his hands up the length of Sherlock's exposed skin. On the way back down, he left red nail marks in his wake. Sebastian moaned into his ear. Sherlock was half-hard and knew it was showing.

"No," he croaked. He cleared his throat. "Stop this."

Jim raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Protestations? Your _body language_ would beg to differ."

Sebastian slid his hand from where it rested on Sherlock's hip inward and let it slip under the waistband of his trousers. He rubbed long, slow strokes over Sherlock's cock through his pants. Sherlock bit back the urge to huff: "yes, fuck..." He squirmed in place, dislodging Sebastian's hand.

"The body is traitorous," Sherlock replied, finding his voice at last. "The mind is not so easily swayed." With great effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and knocked Sebastian's hand away from his waist. The response he got in return was more a dissenting growl than anything intelligible.

"I made myself clear, Moriarty. I told you I had no interest in being your little pet any more. So tell me what it is you want and get the hell out."

Jim narrowed his eyes. "It's wartimes, Sherlock darling. I need you with me, out there. The souls are waiting."

"War is dull, boring. There's no creativity. Just senseless killing."

"And culling," Jim offered. "Plenty of souls for our taking."

Sherlock frowned. "If I agree accompany you, no more unannounced visits. Are we clear?" It would be a small win, but significant enough to Sherlock.

Silence.

"I said, are we clear?"

"Crystal," Jim replied finally, through clenched teeth.

###

The air raid siren woke John from a fitful sleep. He was on his feet in seconds among a scramble of men. The _whistle_ and _boom_ in the distance was unmistakeable. The war had found them.

"CASUALTIES INCOMING!" someone shouted from across the med tent. Lieutenant Collins was already organizing the other men, repeating the triage procedure as loudly as possible. John had just finished gathering himself and his gear when he was approached by Preuss.

"Watson. Listen to me. One of them is ours," Preuss said.

"The casualities?" John asked.

Preuss nodded. "Sodding idiot ran out when the first bomb hit, got himself clipped in the leg by a stray bullet."

"Who was it? When are they bringing him in?"

"Williamson. And they can't," Preuss said, lowering his eyes to the floor. "Too hostile, they can't extract him."

"Tell me where," John demanded.

Preuss looked up suddenly and shook his head. "No, absolutely not. You are _not_ going out there."

John leaned forward and grabbed Preuss by the shoulders. "Tell me where he is or I am going out blind. Would you prefer that?"

Anger welled in Preuss' eyes. "Two clicks north-northeast. By the village. I heard someone say he went down by the water pump."

"Thank you," John replied with a nod. "He owes me bedpan duty and he's not getting off this easy." With a grin, John strapped on his helmet and ran from the tent.

#

He was twenty feet from the pump when he finally made out Williamson's slumped figure against a crumbling wall. There was sand and dust everywhere. Shockwaves shook the ground and bursts of gunfire rang out in every direction, indiscernible. John kept himself as low to the ground as possible and crawled on knees and elbows.

"Williamson!" he shouted over the chaos. "Williamson, you arse!"

"Captain?" came the strangled reply. 

John finally reached the wall, and some shelter. Williamson could barely turn his head to look at him. John could tell just from looking that he was in bad shape. The whole right leg of his camo was saturated in blood and it had begun to pool under his knee. John fished a tourniquet out of his vest and tied it at Williamson's thigh. He cringed as the other man howled in pain.

"Listen, it's all right. I'm going to give you a minute and then we're going back so the lads can look after you."

"Cap... John," Williamson replied, his voice cracked. He clutched John's hand in his own. "I'm sorry."

"Stop it, just stop it," John said, choking back a sob. "What are you sorry for? We're fine."

Williamson shook his head. "No, that's not it."

"What then?"

"I'm sorry," he started, but was interrupted by a wet cough, "about the bedpans."

John let himself laugh and Williamson smiled. Tears ran down John's face. "You bastard," he said quietly. "I won that bloody hand."

"Rematch," Williamson said, as his head drooped, "in hell, you arsehole."

John felt Williamson's grip loosen around his hand. "No, no... fucking..." John straddled Williamson's legs and dug his fingers into the man's neck. No pulse. Just- stillness. And all around them gunfire. Dust. Shockwaves.

Movement flitted in John's peripheral vision. He turned his head. Nothing. But it snapped him out of his grief. He reached into Williamson's shirt and broke off one of the dog tags. He wiped angrily at his face, smearing dirt and tears across his sleeve. He closed the cadet's eyes and squatted against the wall, trying to regain his bearings.

A moment later, a flash of colour caught his attention. He whipped his head around and finally caught sight of it. No more than four feet away.

_A civilian._

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said under his breath. And then, in the distance just beyond the wall, in a small copse of vegetation he spotted the sniper.

"HEY!" he yelled, abandoning all cover. "GET THE FUCK DOWN!"

The civilian turned, disbelief clearly written across his face. He stared back at John. The sniper shifted his position and John acted without a second thought. He sprung from his crouched position, launching himself at the unprotected man. The gunshot was inaudible.

It punched right through the centre of John's chest.


	3. Brace for Impact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, blood, character death (sort-of), non-consensual sexual advance.

Art by [Msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com). Thank you, love.

_Brace for impact._

The idea of it was so absurd, that Sherlock didn't even consider it. The mortals couldn't even see him, let alone engage in physical contact. But somehow, the soldier _had_ seen him. Had looked right at him. And yet, when the man had pitched himself forward at full speed towards Sherlock, he had done nothing, expecting him to continue his trajectory and fall to the ground, bullet whizzing by.

Except.

Except there had been that initial moment of contact - flesh to fabric - that had exploded in a collision. The soldier slammed into him with the force of a hurricane. And something _shifted_. The bullet that should've harmlessly passed through Sherlock suddenly found its home in flesh and bone. The resistance from Sherlock's body had impeded the soldier enough that the bullet tore right through his chest. He crumpled to the ground as if he had slammed into a wall. Sherlock was knocked clear off his feet, falling to the dusty terrain in a heap a couple feet away.

All the air rushed from Sherlock's lungs and he felt a surge of emptiness. His fingertips tingled and the rest of his body felt numb. He scrambled to right himself, pulling himself on hands and knees to the man's side. There was a white band with a red cross on his arm. _Medic_. Sherlock's eyes searched his uniform while he kept his hands limply by his side, afraid to touch. His name and rank were embroidered on his jacket. _Cpt. Watson._ It was unrecognisable. Something. was. _very._ wrong.

Sherlock got to his feet and stepped through a shadow, leaving Captain Watson to spend his last moments alone.

#

"Sherlock! Back so soon?" Moriarty clapped his hands together, pleased. He was standing at the dining room table, which had been re-purposed as a command centre. Maps of the world covered the entire surface, figurines splayed across the continents. It looked like a grandiose version of 'Risk'. Moriarty was nothing if not twisted; everything was some sort of game to him. War should be no different.

"Why are you so filthy?" Moriarty asked when he got no response to his first inquiry. He sounded almost offended.

"Not now, Jim," Sherlock replied, walking briskly towards his study. "Something's gone wrong."

"What do you mean 'wrong'?" Moriarty called after him.

Sherlock responded by slamming the door, halting all conversation. Inside his study, he stalked through the rows of hourglasses which were organised in such a way that only he would understand. He bumped into one set of shelves as he passed, the glass bulbs teetering precariously. Sherlock paused for a moment to ensure none fell, then continued on his search.

"Watson, Watson," he murmured under his breath as he walked. Finally, he turned into one of the rows. There, on the fifth shelf, was the timer he was looking for. The hourglass lay on its side, sand trapped in the bottom bulb, no longer flowing. The nameplate caught the light: _Watson, John._

Sherlock picked it up gently and tried to reset it. He placed it right side up so the sand was in the upper bulb. Nothing changed, nothing moved. As soon as Sherlock pulled his hand away, the hourglass tipped back over on its side. Sherlock grimaced, unimpressed. So instead, he plucked it off the shelf and rushed over to his desk.

The ledger lay open, voluminous and ancient. Sherlock placed the timer on his desk (and it promptly tipped over again) then ran his fingers along the list of names under the current date. John Watson was notably absent. John Watson was not supposed to die today.

So what the hell had happened?

###

The feeling transcended pain. It started out like someone had punched him right in the sternum, but then metal was slicing through skin and burrowing deep into bone. He could feel his flesh tearing and blood spilling forth. He was sucking in wet, laboured breaths, trying to force his crippled lung to function. He was drowning in his own blood. His hands scrabbled at his vest full of bandages and salves, now useless. It was suffocating him and he wanted it off. But his strength and resolve were fading with every pump of his heart. His body was trying desperately to keep him alive and it was killing him.

John was dying.

He didn't know what to do with his last moments. He couldn't call his sister, couldn't reach out to his mates back at the camp. He thought of the civilian in that moment; the strange man who had been wandering the desert. At least John knew he was going out on a high note. Saving a life. He looked around from where he lay stranded on his side, but couldn't find the man that had compelled him into action. He huffed out a weak breath.

"Hey..." he tried to call out. Something was crawling into his skin and his eyes were getting heavy. He didn't recognize it at first. It was cold and it was making it harder for his heart to pump out the last few pints of blood. His hand trembled. Then he knew. _Terror._ He was afraid of dying alone.

"Don't worry Johnny boy," came a voice from above. "We'll hold your hand until Sherlock gets back."

John's eyes snapped open and he looked at the two men crouched over him. He was hallucinating. In his final moments, he had somehow decided to hallucinate two young, blonde men. Seemed odd. He should warn them, just in case.

"Sniper..." he whispered at them, holding the gaze of the larger one - the one with the scar across his nose. Maybe he was a soldier. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination after all. "Get down."

The smaller man pulled away sharply, grabbing at his partner. They shared a look. "Did he just _speak_ to us?"

"Motherfucker," the other one offered, as a response.

John coughed and spit blood.

###

"Where are you going now?" Moriarty demanded, as Sherlock marched through the foyer.

"I'm going back."

Moriarty positioned himself in Sherlock's path. "You'd better tell me what the fuck is going on."

"Anomaly," he replied, shouldering past Jim. "I have to set it right." Sherlock reached the front door, then paused. "Where are the twins?"

Moriarty smiled. "Down below, naturally. Wreaking havoc for daddy."

"Just keep them out of my way."

"Or you could stay out of theirs," Moriarty replied, reaching for Sherlock. "I'm sure I could find a way to occupy your time."

Sherlock turned away from the door to face Jim. He was testing himself, seeing if he could resist. Emotions pricked at the underside of his skin. _Lust. Attraction._ And maybe something that once resembled _love_. But also repulsion. Disgust. Betrayal. In the past he had handed himself over to Jim - mind, body and soul. But those days were long gone. And the marks it had left on him were indelible.

Jim took his hesitation to mean something else completely. He took Sherlock's face in his hands and pulled it down to meet his own. Lips pressed violently against lips. Teeth and tongues met. Jim's hands moved, slipped inside of Sherlock's suit jacket and stroked taught muscles. Sherlock faltered for a moment before regaining his composure. He put his hands on Jim's shoulders and shoved him away with great force. Jim stumbled backwards.

"No more!" barked Sherlock. "It's over!"

"It's never over," spit Jim. "Never. You belong to me."

"I belong to _no one,_ least of all you." Sherlock turned on his heel and nearly pulled the front door off its hinges. He stepped out into blackness and back into the desert. Jim was left standing in the doorway, fuming.

#

Mere moments had passed in the mortal world since he had left John Watson's side. And yet, everything was different. John still clung to life, barely. But Severin and Sebastian had found him alone and dying on the dusty ground. A perfect target.

"Get away from him," Sherlock said evenly. "I've come to collect."

The twins looked up from their prey. "This one's defective," Severin noted.

"We want to play with him," Sebastian finished.

Sherlock scoffed. "Absolutely not. He's dying, he belongs to me now."

"He can see us." Severin. "Speak to us." Sebastian.

"It can happen when they're close to death," Sherlock lied. "It's nothing unusual."

"We've seen plenty of the vermin close to death." Sebastian. "They've never tried to start a conversation before." Severin.

"I don't have time for your inane chatter. And I certainly don't have time to explain the facts of life to two minds as simple as yours. I have a job to do, so kindly _fuck off._ " Sherlock was getting impatient. "Or I will tell Jim that you were spending precious time fawning all over some stupid mortal, rather than doing your job. Do you think he'd be happy to hear that?"

The twins looked at each other for a moment, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Have your bloody soul, then," Severin relented.

"We'll be seeing you at home, Sherlock." Sebastian reminded him.

They both stepped into a shadow and disappeared. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He was alone with John Watson. He pulled out his scythe and snapped it open.

Sherlock walked over to where Williamson's body was slumped against the wall and performed the reaping that he had intended to carry out before John had tackled him. His name _had_ been in the book. His time was expired, his hourglass spent. But now there was nothing left standing between Sherlock and his duty to a dying soldier.

He took two long steps forward and fell to his knees at John's side. His mind was screaming 'no' but he couldn't stop himself from crossing the boundary of physical contact. John had stepped over the line first, he thought by way of justification. He had broken that barrier.

Sherlock gathered him into his lap and studied his face. It was weathered, as he suspected a soldier's face should be. A faint stubble was growing on his cheeks and chin. Sherlock trailed his fingers over John's skin and the texture was exquisite. Sherlock's nerve endings devoured the new information. He studied the colours in John's hair and smelled his soap. He wanted to consume him, he was infatuated. Long, precious seconds passed as Sherlock catalogued all the illicit details he had always denied himself. And now that he had crossed that line, he wasn't sure he could pull himself back.

John's eyes fluttered open and his chest shuddered with breath. Sherlock's heart nearly stopped from shock.

"There you are," John rasped. "All right?"

Sherlock's extremities were ice cold. John was looking at him. John was speaking to him.

"All right," he replied, because he could think of nothing else.

"Tell me your name, mate." John's voice was barely a whisper.

"Sherlock."

John smiled. "Sherlock, some advice. Best not to go for a stroll in a war zone."

It was Sherlock's turn to smile. He could feel John's life slipping away as the blood soaked through his trousers, but he couldn't stop himself. "Take my hand," he told John. "I'll stay with you."

John raised his left hand off the ground and Sherlock clutched it in his own. Warmth seeped into his entire body. His nerves were alight with electricity. His heart beat in a singular rhythm. _John, John, John._ Everything became instantly clear. He could not lose this man.

Sherlock shifted and carefully slid John off his lap and onto the ground. John groaned in pain. Sherlock ripped off the vest John had been pawing at and pulled open his jacket. He tore at the hole that the bullet had left in John's t-shirt and exposed his chest. There was blood everywhere. The wound was vicious; the edges of his skin flayed and raw.

There was blood on Sherlock's hands. Warm, mortal blood. John's blood. He stared at it, fascinated by the colour and consistency. John twitched. Seconds of his life remained. Sherlock's shook himself out of his trance and clapped both hands down on top of the hole in John's chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Forced time to a slow crawl. Seconds stretched as far as possible, as thin as the Fates' skein. And then, with all his will and every last drop of his power, Sherlock pushed the bullet.

He forced it out of John's chest, through his skin and muscle and bone, into his shoulder.

And then he collapsed.


	4. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, injury, explicit sex, discussion of torture, guns.

Art by [msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com). Thank you, darling.

\--

John woke with a gasp, desperately sucking air into his lungs. He tried to sit upright, but a heavy weight pinned him down. He started to panic, claustrophobia setting in on all sides, and he clawed at his chest. Where he expected to feel hot, sticky blood and the cavernous wound, he instead felt smooth flesh. And then came the pain.

A red hot spear shot through his left arm and shoulder and he had to bite down on his cheek to suppress an exclamation of pain. The sequence of events just wasn’t making sense anymore. _Why aren’t I dead?_ He searched his memories. He could recall the civilian and the gunshot. Bleeding out on the desert floor, two blonde men, and being pulled into someone’s lap. It didn’t add up. And it certainly didn’t lead to him _still being alive_ at this very moment. Confusion and disorientation started to tickle at the back of his mind, once again.

 _Calm down, soldier,_ he told himself. _Get it together._ He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, focusing on the way the air filled both his lungs and how his chest rose without difficulty. He left his injured arm limp at his side and used his right hand to explore the weight on his abdomen. His fingers found hair, and a head. He tensed his abdominal muscles and craned his neck, trying to get a look at the person without moving his shoulder too much. A dark mop of wavy, curly hair. _It’s him._

“Hello?” John asked. It came out as a harsh whisper, his throat dry and sticky. “Sherlock?”

There was no response. John started to slowly shift out from under the man, trying desperately to keep his left arm as immobile as possible. Every now and then there would be a particularly bad jostle and pain would jolt through his body. He would bite the inside of his cheek and groan through the pain. He had no idea how much time had passed or if the sniper was still in the area. He had to keep quiet, just in case.

After a few long minutes, John had managed to get free of the dead weight. He pushed himself onto his elbow, into a lopsided, inclined position and looked down at his chest. At first he was horrified. There was blood everywhere, drying and congealing. His shirt was ripped open and tattered. But notably absent was the gunshot wound. _Had he imagined it all?_ Impossible. There was no way he could have imagined that level of pain. The sensation of dying. But his mind was struggling to resolve what exactly had happened and how he now found himself without mortal injury. He looked over at Sherlock again.

The man was out cold. No amount of nudging or urgent whispering could wake him. John even checked his pulse; if it was present, it was very weak. He couldn’t seem to find it. And yet, he could see Sherlock taking shallow breaths, his exhalations warm against John’s hand. As he watched Sherlock breathing, his mind shuffled ever closer to a precipice of panic, confusion and fear. He had to do something. Take action. Distract himself.

John looked around as best he could. It was dark and dead quiet. However long it had been, the explosions had now apparently stopped and he could only hear a smattering of gunfire a few kilometres away. _No risk, no reward,_ he thought to himself as he struggled into a sitting position. He closed his eyes and counted out three deeps breaths. No kill shot sought him out. His fourth exhale was heavy and jagged. _Back to work, then._

His coat and vest were still within reaching distance. John pulled them toward himself and dug through the pockets until he found a folded up triangular sling. He opened it up and lay it out on his lap before gently inspecting his shoulder. He pulled back the pieces of his shirt that remained and was met with the sight of a vicious scar. It looked about two weeks old. _How long have I been out here?_ Another puzzle. His body told him that he wasn’t thirsty or hungry or dead enough for it really to have been that long. And surely someone from his unit would’ve come looking for his body, at least. So somewhere between minutes and days, then. _Great._

John spent longer than was probably necessary trying to get his arm into the sling. It was hopeless. He couldn’t do it with only one good hand and with all the jostling, the pain in his shoulder had only intensified. He was sweating and starting to feel nauseous.

“Alright, sod it,” he said aloud at last. He slipped his good arm into his vest, then - tucking his left arm against his chest - velcroed it shut as tight as possible. He groaned out a string of obscenities, but the end result was that his injured arm was pinned and his shoulder was immobilized. On to the civilian, then.

He laid out his jacket and half-dragged, half-rolled Sherlock on to it. John manhandled the man’s long arms into the sleeves and used the discarded sling to bind his hands together over his chest. Then he bent down, grabbed the collar of his jacket and started to drag Sherlock across the terrain. One way or another, they were both getting back to camp.

###

Greg reached out with one hand and stabilized himself against Mycroft’s chest. He slid himself down the length of his lover’s cock slowly, feeling every inch as it stretched him open. Mycroft lay beneath him, eyes half-lidded and hands clutching white bed sheets. Greg lifted, then lowered himself once more, working to establish a slow and lazy pace. He hummed with pleasure as Mycroft’s hips rose to meet him.

“Tell me what you see,” Greg said. He began whispering a stream of words, weaving dreams.

Mycroft’s eyes closed as he exhaled and his eyes darted beneath heavy lids.

“I see an ice tipped mountain and a devastating sky. I see you spread out on a picnic blanket on a sea of green grass, naked and tanned. I see us swimming beneath a waterfall, your lips against mine, tasting like glass.”

Greg leaned over him and brushed his lips against Mycroft’s as he continued to speak silent words. He increased the pace of their lovemaking, his hips rocking back and forth, building pressure.

“What else?”

“I see a river of linen and us drowning in it. I see cotton clouds and gold threads of sunshine. I see your eyes like frostbite and your lips laced with venom. I see the centre of the world when you look at me and I see the universe when you come. I see your love like the sharp sting of a razor blade and I see your lust like fingertip bruises in my skin.”

Greg ground against Mycroft and his rhythm lost consistency. “Yes, perfect, my love,” he told him, running his nails across freckled skin. Mycroft twitched inside him, hardening further and approaching climax.

“Now tell me what you see when you come inside me.”

Greg bore down and fucked Mycroft hard and fast. They both breathed heavily, panting and gripping one another. Mycroft moaned loudly as Greg rode him.

“So... close...” he warned.

“Tell me!” Greg demanded. He took his own cock in hand and stroked roughly, trying to synchronize their orgasms.

Mycroft came, his whole body tensing and releasing. The sensation pushed Greg over the edge and he spilled over his hand and on to Mycroft’s stomach. He looked sharply at his lover, willing him to wake. Mycroft’s eyes flew open and he gasped. In that rare conscious moment, their gaze locked on one another.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed.

“No...” Greg whispered, slumping over. “Me. You’re supposed to see me.”

“Bring him to me,” Mycroft commanded, his eyes closing under a heavy weight. Sleep overcame him once more.

“As you wish,” Greg replied, climbing off.

###

John’s tent sat on the edge of camp, closest to a bank of sand dunes. The grounds seemed quiet, so when he pushed inside and dragged Sherlock over the threshold, the last thing he expected to see was Collins and Preuss having a heated discussion next to his cot.

“You are _fooling yourself_ if you think he’s still alive! It’s been 18 hours and they haven’t even lifted the recon ban yet,” Collins argued.

“Watson went out there after one of our _men_ , you arsehole,” Preuss responded. “Alive or dead, I am going out there to get him. You stay here with your tail between your legs and tell the commander whatever you bloody well want to tell him!”

John cleared his throat.

Preuss dropped a bottle of water and Collins stared at him like he was seeing a ghost. John felt the hike catching up to him rapidly. His head started to swim and his chest felt tight. He unzipped his vest halfway, still keeping his arm pinned, and took a shaky step towards the cot.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Pruess said, crossing himself, “Watson. Are you- Is that your-”

John looked down and saw the blood once more. “Oh, right. Mine, yeah. It’s okay though, I think. I just need to-” He paused to swallow down a wave of nausea. “Help the civ, I think I saved his life. Or, he saved mine. I’m not really-”

With that, he fell to his knees and blackness started to swim in to the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was Preuss and Collins rushing towards him.

#

“Hey. John, can you hear me?”

“It’s you.”

“Obviously.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. Quite. You saved my life.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re at base camp.”

“Right, good.”

“And you’re dreaming.”

“Am I? But then, why are you here?”

“Because you’re dreaming about me. Really, John. You could’ve figured that one out on your own. If you had just applied yourself-”

“I think I... hit my head when I fell. Things are a bit foggy.”

“Well, you were shot.”

“Yes, in the chest.”

“Allegedly.”

“I remember- It was you. I remember your hands on my chest.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so. What happens next?”

“Well, I suppose whatever you like. This is your dream, after all.”

“You said you’d stay with me. Until it was all over.”

“I did say that.”

“Then come closer. Stay here.”

“As you wish.”

But the words came out sounding very wrong. It was not Sherlock’s voice. John tilted his head, confused. Sherlock met his eyes and whispered:

“No-”

And then he was gone.

###

Severin stood behind Sebastian, peering over his brother’s shoulder. He had the terrible habit of wearing a crooked grin whenever he was nervous and it drove Jim up the wall. Sebastian had suggested Severin hang back, in this case, and to let him deliver the news.

“Well, sir, in a manner of speaking, it wouldn’t be remiss to say that, in the regular course of our duties, out there in the hectic and often confusing battlefields of the brilliant war which you so spectacularly crafted, we may have, contingent upon a number of contributory factors, a significant handful of which were particularly out of our specific control, lost sight of, and by that I mean, had become separated from, through no intention of our own, a certain Reaper of whom, in this singular instance, your staggering intellect had the foresight to request of us, my loyal brother and I, to keep a watchful and trained eye upon, should that be possible given that he oftentimes finds our mere presence to be particularly loathsome and has, in past practice, suggested that we, pardon my French, sir, well, ‘sod off’.”

Sebastian sucked in a deep breath and Severin snickered. Sebastian elbowed him in the ribs.

Jim nodded and pursed his lips. He clasped his hands behind his back and levelled his gaze on the twins.

“So, you lost him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say lost, per se, given that-”

Jim shook his head once. “Not a question.”

Severin shrunk back further, clearly not immune to Jim’s icy tone. Sebastian swallowed a lump in his throat and stood silently.

“They say,” Jim began, circling around the table towards the two brothers, “that Lingchi was outlawed as a method of execution in China in 1905, which is quite tragic. It required flair and expertise to really succeed at Lingchi. Cut too fast, be too greedy, and your victim would die from the trauma. Cut too slowly and they would lose consciousness or bleed out before you were done with them. To be skilled at the _lingering death_ , one must really be trained by a master.”

Jim stopped in front of Sebastian.

“Have I ever told you boys about my studies during the Song Dynasty?”

He reached out to dust off some desert sand from Sebastian’s jacket. The older twin flinched.

“Might I suggest, Sebastian, that you take yourself back to the last known whereabouts of one Sherlock Holmes, and do not return to this place unless it is with him in tow.”

“Brilliant idea as always, sir,” Seb replied. “We’ll just be off.”

“Tut tut, dear boy. I said you. Not Severin. He can stay here with me and help... sharpen the knives.”

Sebastian’s blood froze in his veins. He could feel Severin grip him through his jacket.

“As you wish,” Sebastian replied through clenched teeth. He stepped through a shadow and disappeared. Jim and Severin were left alone in his wake.

###

“Hey. John, can you hear me?”

He felt like he was underwater, looking up at the sun through the surface of a lake or ocean. He forced his mind to swim upward, to struggle towards consciousness.

“Watson. Come on, mate.”

When he finally managed to crack his eyes open, Preuss was hovering over him with a pen light. He looked around and recognized his tent, his cot. His things - gun, recovered dog tags, radio, canteen - were laid out on a small metal table beside him. John blinked slowly, twice, and tried to clear his throat.

“Here, sip this.” Collins held a cup and straw up to his parched lips. John drank, coughed, then drank some more.

“Thanks,” he finally croaked. His throat felt dry and scratchy. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Preuss and Collins exchanged a look. “Watson, what’s ‘sherlock’? You’ve been mumbling that in your sleep since you walked in here and collapsed.”

“Not ‘what’. ‘Who.’ The civilian I dragged in with me,” he explained. “He was unconscious when I got here.”

Preuss sighed and put a hand on John’s uninjured shoulder. “John, there was no one else. It was just you.”

“What?” John felt a strange uneasiness in his stomach. “No, that’s impossible. There was a sniper and Sherlock was walking and...”

“Look, it’s alright. You’ve been out there for hours. You’re dehydrated and injured and confused. You need a lot of rest and a lot of fluids before we can even ship you back home,” Collins replied.

John leaned forward off his cot and looked around the small tent frantically. “No! He was here. My jacket, I-”

John was interrupted by the sound of the air raid siren. The two men sprang into action.

“Sit tight, mate!” Collins yelled as they ran out of John’s tent. “We’ll handle this!”

John slumped back on his cot, feeling utterly confused. It wasn’t a hallucination. He hadn’t made it up. Sherlock had saved his life and now he was- Where was he? The tinge of panic had returned as John tried to get a handle on the last 24 hours and his recollection of events. A hollowness settled into his chest and his heart felt strained and burdened. His skin prickled with fear. It was oddly familiar. He had felt this way before.

“Hello again, John Watson.”

“You...” John replied.

“Ah, you remember. Wonderful. Now tell me where to find Sherlock.”

John frowned. Something wasn’t right. “No.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sebastian walked over to stand next to the cot.

“I said, I don’t know.”

Sebastian leaned down and put his mouth next to John’s ear. “This isn’t a game, Johnny boy. You will tell me where Sherlock is, or so help me, I will reopen your chest and remove your organs alphabetically _while you watch_.”

Fear clamped down and John’s ‘fight or flight’ response kicked in. Fortunately, basic training had taken care of the ‘or flight’ half of the equation. John reached over to the side table, grabbed the barrel of his gun and swung it as hard as he could at Sebastian’s face. It connected with an audible _crack_ and Sebastian reeled backwards.

This gave John enough time to shift his grip and unhook the safety on his gun. He steadied his aim best he could with one hand and squeezed the trigger. Bullets flew across the short distance and punched holes in the fabric of his tent. The blonde stranger growled and winked out of existence just as Preuss and another Private burst into the tent.

“Jesus Christ Watson! What the bloody hell are you doing?”

John looked at the gun in his hand and then over towards the empty space where a man had just been standing. Something fractured inside him. He dropped the gun into his lap and held up his hand in surrender.

“Lock me up, Preuss. You have to. I can’t- You have to detain me.”

Preuss stared at him as the Private secured the gun. “John...”

“Do it,” John begged.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for your patience with this chapter. xoxo There aren't sufficient words to articulate my appreciation.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for A Grim Fandango](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873809) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




End file.
